


a show for a show

by xTammyVx



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Closeted Character, Costumes, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Dancer Niall, Dirty Dancing, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Sexual Inexperience, Shameless Smut, Smut, Sorry Not Sorry, Stripper Louis, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Stripping, Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xTammyVx/pseuds/xTammyVx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You wanna touch me, pretty boy?” Louis asks, a groan entwined with his words and Harry’s breath trips over itself. “You shouldn’t. You know that it’s against the rules.”</i> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Featuring Louis "the Tommo" Tomlinson, a go-go dancer at the club that Harry's friends have gotten him a twenty-minute private session at.</p><p>Only, they didn't mention that his dancer is a boy, and it really doesn't matter to Harry anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a show for a show

“Louis, you’re up for room number three, the cowboy costume, in fifteen. Go.”

“Ooh, cowboy, my favourite,” he grins, getting a slap on the arse which sends him skittling off to the changing room. Getting dressed (and not-so-dressed) quickly is literally on his CV, a talent that he had to prove in his first interview. (Louis still isn’t sure where Paul got that fireman’s outfit.)

Danielle stops him and collects the empty glasses from his hands, offering a wink and a “Lucky boy, you” before she whisks away, a trail of gazes threading to her tight jeans and black bra, visible through her white blouse. Louis winks at girls as he shifts through the tangle of tables and people in the club, tongue flicking to the corner of his mouth when he catches some men’s eyes, too.

He hits the ten-minute timer on his way into the “Staff only” area, plucking the assigned outfit from its hanger.

An envious groan sounds through the room. “You always get the good ones. I’m James fuckin’ Bond tonight.” Niall fiddles around with the trousers. “You know how long it takes me to put this thing on?”

“If only Zayn wasn’t such a pretty boy,” Louis sighs wistfully, flicking a knowing gaze to the photo on Niall’s desk by his keys and wallet. “Why don’t you just ask Lou if you can take the outfits home for the night? You know she loves you.”

Niall shoots him a look. “And risk getting come on one of her masterpieces? No fuckin’ way, man. I’m not suicidal. Also, you know, he likes to come here even though he has to pay.” His tone changes to a sneaky concoction of suggestiveness and excitement. “He says it drives him mad when I dance for him, like a role-play kind of thing.”

A laugh bursts out of Louis before he can catch it, having to pause from doing up the Velcro straps on his pull-away T-shirt. “Fuckin’ brilliant, he is. Good on you.”

Nodding, Niall waits for Louis to calm down before he asks, “Your boy’s quite a cutie, though, the one that you’re dancing for. Saw him while I was picking up glasses. His mate asked where he was supposed to go.” Louis listens intently. “First time, I’m thinking. He looks very young, and very shy. Sweet face.”

“Yay for me,” Louis cheers, a little on the dry side.

Niall notices the exhaustion blossoming in his friend and pats him on the back sympathetically, placing the hat over his unruly hair. “Chin up, cheeky chappy. It’s just twenty minutes. Rip off your outfit, shake what your mother gave you, and anything else to get you a whopping tip.”

Louis smacks him on the arm for the eyebrow-waggling.

“Hey, he’s nice looking enough, Tommo.” Niall swats away Louis’ hands, adjusting his bowtie, and then the dancer’s cowboy hat, tipping it more to the left.

“Unlike you and Zayn, I don’t have to do _any’tin ehlse_ to get me a _whoppin’ tip_ ,” he teases.

Niall frowns. “Hey, we wait until we’re back at the flat before we get to the touching,” he claims, wiggles his hips, hands stroking down Louis’ sides, “and the _kissing_ , and the _sucking_ , and the _ah_ , _ahh_ , _ah_ , _fuck_ , _Zayn_!”

Louis pushes him away as Niall collapses into his chair, panting with his eyes closed. The blonde’s grin cracks over his pale mouth. “I’d make an excellent woman,” he says matter-of-factly.

“How do I look?” Louis inspects himself in the mirror, eyes panning over himself for a hitch in the costume.

“Fuckable.” Niall’s eyes widen. “Oh, you mean the outfit?”

Niall hits the alarm as it buzzes out, wishing Louis good luck with his performance.

…

Louis gets started as soon as he’s in the room, squeezing his dick through his trousers. His eyes slip closed and a puff of breath is followed by calm, tight exhales as he works his cock up into a semi. Flicking through the music collection as he waits patiently for his third private performance of the evening, Louis’ eyes narrow. He’s just about to march right on out to clip Niall on the ear for stealing his best CDs _again_ when he gets a timid knock at the door.

“Come on in,” Louis calls, tucking himself from view. There’s this neat little walk-in bit off of the room where it’s darker, and Louis waits, fingers lazily on the cocked side of his hat.

He squints as he hears _Zayn_ , hears the smile as he says, “There you go, mate. Have fun.”

There’s murmuring, then a _click_ , and Louis listens to his customer, who freezes, imagining him craning his neck as he searches for his dancer, and if Niall’s right in his guess and it _is_ his first private performance, then he’s not going to sit down until he’s told.

Sure enough, Louis counts fifteen long seconds, anticipation blooming in the silence. Then he tips out from behind the corner to get a good look at the boy, smiling; “Hello there.”

He has to gobble back a wild grin when a flush of crimson blossoms from the boy’s—he’s definitely younger than Louis—hairline to the collar of his charcoal jumper. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing tattoos, and he picks at where the fabric is bunching just above his elbows.

“Hi,” he says quietly. He’s got a natural vibrato, a rough undertone to his voice, and Louis likes that, thinking that if this lad talks a little more throughout their time together then it shouldn’t be too much effort to keep his cock hard.

Louis feels a pang of sympathy when the boy’s hands scrunch low in his pockets. “What’s your name, mate?”

“Harry. I’m Harry.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Harry. I’m Louis ‘the Tommo’ Tomlinson. Take a seat.” With that, Louis gestures to the plush red chair beside him, and Harry hesitates a breath before closing the distance. He’s especially careful lowering himself down, eyes glued to Louis like the holstered gun strapped to his thigh is real and its barrel deep in that curly hair.

Harry’s shoulders inch up like he wants to somehow melt into his own body as Louis’ hand slides over the table for the play button.

“Wait,” Harry interjects as the dancer’s fingertip hovers over it. “My mates, they… It’s my twenty-first, and they didn’t tell me that you were a… a boy, or a man.” He shakes his head slowly, and his curls jiggle. “I’ve read the rules and that. I know that I’m not allowed to touch you or really talk to you, but—”

“We don’t have to do anything that _you_ don’t want to, either, Harry,” Louis cuts in. His understanding breathes soothingly into the air. Harry’s brows crumple together, so Louis says, “We can just sit here and do nothing. I won’t tell them if you don’t want me to dance. I get paid either way.”

Harry’s pouty lips curl in and he licks at them, even more of a mess than Louis had thought possible.

“No, I mean, they _expect_ me to do that. I want you to do it,” he admits gingerly. “But, like, I don’t want them to know. I haven’t told them about me, yet.”

“As long as the touching rule isn’t broken, nothing that happens in here leaves the room. Unless _you_ tell them, they’ll never know.”

Harry nods, suddenly spurred with relief into a grin, which Louis returns as the music begins its steady thrum. Harry seems to settle back in the chair a little more, and Louis is glad that he worked the extra hours at the carwash fundraiser so that Paul could up the quality in the private rooms. It sure beats the scrummy furniture from a year ago.

He starts out slowly, easing both himself and Harry into a good rhythm, hips rolling. Louis knows what he’s doing, how to get his audience amped and their knickers wet and their dicks stiff; dance like a top for the ladies, all hip pumping and such, and add in some bottom for the men. He does it for Harry, watching for a response, liking the one for his bum-wiggling more, when Harry blinks and inhales and his lips go ajar.

When his music heats up, so do the movements; Louis grinds down to the floor in a curl of sultry sways, crawling up between Harry’s parted knees, his face an inch from the younger boy’s. His attention trains down on him, on his sweet face, on his unmistakably blameless doe-eyes so entranced with everything going on.

Harry swallows as his focus ducks to Louis’ mouth, and then to the very realistic-looking gun (God bless Lou Teasdale) trailing up his chest and hooking under his chin.

“You wanna touch me, pretty boy?” Louis asks, a groan entwined with his words and Harry’s breath trips over itself. “You shouldn’t. You know that it’s against the rules.”

It looks like he’s going to chew through his lip, and Louis hits the light switch behind the chair’s back. He flicks another, sending a cascade of yellow and gold streaking through the black and lighting up his toned muscles like the sun is inside him. It’s routine, the bass dropping just after he pulls back from Harry, and he rips the trousers from his legs. Harry’s eyes widen as he watches each and every darting movement. Louis barely gives him a chance to recover, tearing open his shirt next to reveal the full extent of his body, sculpted from hours of training. There’s a sticker on his chest, a mock of a sheriff’s badge, that sparkles when the beams hit it. The song blasts with its thick bass pounding metallically through the room, his fingers curling around the bar on the ceiling for balance. Watching for a well-aimed streak of light, Louis’ eyes are kept hidden under his hat, tipped forward in a practiced move that Liam had taught him.

Finally, he catches a glimpse, grinning like the Cheshire cat at what his gaze picks up; Harry’s hard-on is pitched in his lap, stiff and thick and laying, confined, to the side of his jeans. The boy reaches down nervously and gives himself a squeeze to readjust, hand jumping back when Louis lunges forward.

His legs split over the chair, thighs spread with his arse not an inch from Harry’s crotch. His weight goes onto his hands as he lifts a knee to either arm, Harry’s hands tucked between his legs as if he can shield his pitifully obvious and _very_ erect cock from Louis’ knowing eyes. Harry edges further down and then sits up, like he’s not sure, not sure if he wants Louis to keep teasing him, not sure if he _likes_ being teased even though the hungry stare says that he _definitely_ does.

Louis sways his hips up, hand sliding into Harry’s hair, arm curling around his head so that their gazes can lock and Harry can only see Louis’ movements blurrily through the corners of his eyes. Louis’ muscles are really starting to feel it as he turns over in the chair, and Harry’s not even sure how he managed that, judging by the sudden intake of air. Then again, that could be because of the way that Louis is, as Niall so cheekily put it, shaking what his mother gave him. He’s always been so proud of his arse, always so ready to move it, always happy when he gets a lady or a lad who likes to watch it when he bounces (he refuses to resort to the term “twerking”) and has to hold on to the hanging bar for support.

When the music starts to cool, so does Louis’ dancing; he spins back to Harry in a slow, deliberate twist, giving one last glance at his bottom to the young boy, the lights blending into the previous glow of standard yellow. His fingers bury themselves into the thick waves of hair once again and this time Harry makes a little _ngh_ sound. His innocence practically bleeds into the air, sizzling down Louis’ spine like lightning. He’ll pull off to this for _weeks_.

Panting slightly, Louis presses the rim of his gun to Harry’s cheek, the timing all coming to a perfect collision as the music ends with a gunshot.

Harry’s mouth is open as the lights automatically brighten, forehead and chin shiny. His hair sticks to his skin just in front of his left ear, and Louis congratulates himself for getting a customer so worked up. He slips from the boy’s lap, smiling, and says, “Worth it?”

Only it’s not a question, because he knows from the _ridiculously_ large stiffy in Harry’s trousers that, yeah, he’d enjoyed himself. Harry swallows and collects himself from the floor, managing to thread some words together from the jumble in his brain.

“Yeah, yeah, that was,” he blurts, and pauses to blink and smile disbelievingly, “you’re amazing. Seriously fantastic.” His dimples are smooth dips into his cheeks that Louis would kill to stroke with his fingertips.

“Looks like it,” he smirks instead, gesturing to Harry’s lap.

The kiss of pink on Harry’s cheeks spreads, the same colour he’d worn as he came in now dusted with his bashful grin. “Well, _you_ try not getting hard when there’s a cute guy with little clothing dancing his bum off.”

Louis thinks that he should be leaving, now, but Harry is rather charming, and he’d like him to come back, so he lets the banter play out. Besides, he’d be lying if he said that Harry was the only one getting off on this. Louis knows, knows that he shouldn’t, that it’s against the rules, that Paul will crack his skull for it, but—

“You know, I don’t usually say this,” he murmurs, glancing around even though they’re _definitely_ alone, “but there are tissues in that cabinet. Usually I just use it to pat off the sweat, but I’d feel awful if you had to go out in front of your friends like that.”

“Really?” Harry whispers, echoing Louis’ low tone. A line appears between his brows where they’re furrowed. “Won’t this room be booked?”

“When a room is booked for twenty minutes, it gets marked as used for forty, you know, for cleaning. Like I said, I wouldn’t usually do this.” He sighs like he’s just donated his life savings to a charity. “I’d say that you have ten minutes to rub one off before I have to make sure everything’s tidy and ready for the next dancer.”

Harry swallows, eyes darting down to his dick as Louis retrieves the box.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, alright.” Taking a deep breath, he stares up at Louis. “Are you going to stay?”

Louis can’t stop the easy laugh at such a predictable response. “What? A show for a show?” Harry nods. “Would you like me to?”

“I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t mind,” he says nervously. Louis knows that Harry’s well aware of how far he’s pushing his luck, and decides to humour him;

“Alright, then. Give us a look.”

Louis fishes out a chair from the crook in the wall where he’d hid at the beginning, setting it with the back to Harry and slinging a leg over it. Harry’s broad hand grazes over his dick, once, twice, then he gets started on his fly. He’s edging himself, fingers hooking around the base of his cock through his boxers for a squeeze and a stroke. Louis tilts his head slowly, enjoying the sight, letting himself become entranced in the amateur yet adorable performance.

It’s obvious that Harry’s never wanked in front of someone before, but he’s trying so, so hard to play it cool, so Louis doesn’t say a thing. He lets his eyes drift up to the boy’s face, to his bottom lip tugged between his teeth, to his eyes pinned to his own lap self-consciously.

“Hey, Harry,” Louis offers, “look at me while you’re doing it.”

The taint of assurance on Louis’ face is what Harry needs. He gingerly pulls his cock free of his boxers, watching, waiting for any hint of approval in tilt in Louis’ grin. He gets it, bright and clear. He’s got a nice one, thick and tinted pink and uncut. Harry’s fingers curl around his shaft, working himself up into a choppy wank as he nearly drools. Deliberately shuffling forward for Harry’s benefit, Louis lets his gaze flicker up to Harry’s face again. His brows are arched in concentration, tongue stuck to the corner of his plump lips.

“You like going down on girls, Harry?” Louis asks casually.

Harry’s hands stop for just a second, one at the head and one on his stomach.

“Yeah,” he replies quietly and tries to be as equally cool on the subject. He’s got a such a sly edge on the word, though, like it’s some secret of the sneakiest kind.

“So you like women, then,” Louis confirms, getting a shy nod in return. “You ever gone down on a boy?”

The rhythm of his pumping fist falters and it’s now that the younger boy looks away. “Once.”

“Once? What a shame, with a mouth like that, not to mention your hair,” Louis teases wistfully. A puffy groan slips from Harry. “I mean, really, you ought to be putting those lips to good use, and you like it when people touch your hair, don’t you, Harry?”

Harry offers a jerky, excited nod.

“Do girls pull your hair while you eat them out?” Louis knows what he doing, what his words and simmering tone sound like to Harry. “I bet they do. I would, watching your mouth on my cock. Did you like sucking that bloke off? How old were you?”

Harry shifts and pouts, a lot closer than he’d have liked to be.

“Fifteen. I was… fifteen. There was a boy in my PE class and he said that I was pretty, and that he wanted to blow me.” He takes a pause to slick his hand up on his tongue and wrap it back around his cock. “He did, before you ask. I sat down on the bench in the changing rooms, doing up my shoes after practice, and he sucked me off, just like that, with no kissing or anything.”

“Did you like it?” Louis asks, feeling his dick fatten up in the tight fabric of his pants.

“Shit, yeah,” Harry blurts. The smoke of arousal accents his words, fist churning tightly over his shaft. “I was fifteen, mate. Getting a blow job was literally my wet dream.”

“So you returned the favour? Very polite of you,” the older boy muses, propping an arm up on the chair back to stroke his chin thoughtfully.

Harry snickers. “He didn’t give me much of a choice. Just sorta mounted me, got his cock out, and told me to open wide. Nearly made me gag a few times, too.” He whimpers, gasps, and makes a noise low in his throat.

Louis tilts his chin up when a moan slips out, and Harry retreats to his tentatively shaky breathing in an instant. Louis smiles, “But you liked it, didn’t you?”

A sharp nod makes Harry’s wavy hair bounce. His hips work up in jabs, fucking his hand as his gaze plummets to the inside of Louis’ lean, obscenely open thighs. Louis is hard, so hard in the tiny underwear, very much aware of the state he’s in. The sharp pang of realisation flashes across Harry’s face and he looks up to Louis with the question sewn onto his tongue. Louis gives a shrug and a nod.

Harry’s grin makes him look like an excited puppy who’s just been offered a play.

This is what Louis has been needing all day; a pick-me-up in the form of an adorable boy who’s ecstatic to know that he’s gotten someone hot and bothered just by rubbing one off. His tongue traces his upper lip and Harry’s brows pinch together, smile twitching. Louis watches Harry hover in it; his lashes flutter, fist quivering on the head, chin dropping to his chest as he comes into a tissue. Louis knows the feeling of floating there, can see it in Harry’s eyes as he glances up, once again searching for a sign of approval.

“I definitely won’t be telling your friends,” Louis says quietly as Harry tries to steady the hum of his heat. “Then I couldn’t keep you all to myself, could I?”

Harry snickers, eyes hazy with afterglow. He’s not quite soft yet, tucking himself back in, cheeky gaze following Louis—and his pretty obvious stiffy—across the room as Louis plucks the first blank page from a notebook that’s caught his eye in the cabinet. With a pen that’s nearly run out and takes a few scribbles to work, he writes as he speaks;

“If you ever want a similar show, Harry, you’re welcome to call.” He tears it off, folds it, and slips it into Harry’s trouser pocket.

A lopsided grin graces Harry’s lips. “But then we’ll be uneven.”

“Oh,” Louis snorts with a suggestive eyebrow-raise, “I’m _sure_ that you could find a way to make it up to me, with a mouth like that.”

Harry looks proud and young and handsome as he leaves, flashing Louis one last grin before he becomes one with the crowd again, Louis leaning against the doorframe.

A blonde head bobs past, back-paces, and turns to Louis.

“I know that grin.” His gaze lowers and Louis hears his jaw hit the floor even over the pumping music. It’s one of Liam’s tracks. “Mother of Mary, put that thing away.”

“Shut it, Horan,” Louis smirks. “Where’s _lover boy_?”

“At the bar, looking lonesome and devilishly beautiful, too beautiful to spend a night all on his own.” His face lights up. “I’m going to use that line, actually. He’s really eager tonight, even for him. I am going to _hurt_ tomorrow.”

“Stop!” Louis insists, fingers plugged into his ears. “I don’t want to think about you two getting it on.”

Niall peers past Louis and his mouth screws to the side. “Well, if you’re not wanting Paul to know what you and Curly were doing back there, I suggest you get cleaning. Are those spunk-tissues on the floor? Did he toss off in there?”

Louis shuts the door in his face, grinning to himself.

…

Harry calls the next day.


End file.
